


Fritillary

by Transistance



Series: Butterflies [2]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Apologies, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Queerplatonic Relationships, Relationship Discussions, Slow Dancing, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 07:39:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7258498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transistance/pseuds/Transistance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Violence can be forgotten and forgiven rather more easily than most offences, if committed by a loved one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fritillary

The first time he hits her she's shocked.

It comes out of the blue, completely; he's talking to one of his superiors and she happens to be nearby, so she integrates herself into the conversation – the second man is someone she knows by sight if not name, and she and Will are fairly reputable for being inseparable anyway – and all is well and good until Will says something thoughtless that gives her an opening to drop a sordid suggestion as to what desks and overtime are actually good for (it's not something that she's ever actually done, and certainly not with Will, but that's the case with the majority of her flirting; it's just fun, never particularly serious) and he smacks her. It's not a warning tap, and has a fair bit of force behind it – it sends her reeling backwards, more from how unexpected it is than any actual pain.

The other superior's head jerks to follow the motion, vague startlement on his own face, but Will follows more slowly. By the time his eyes meet hers she's up, and quite suddenly she doesn't want to hear an excuse or a weak apology or _reprimand_ , so Grell turns sharply on her heel and flees. Behind her the superior says something and William' answer is soft, but she doesn't turn back – isn't called back, is out of their conversation entirely as abruptly as she was in it – and decides that she doesn't want to know. She doesn't want to know. The back of her throat feels hoarse but her eyes are dry; she can't cry, because the situation is unprecedented and absurd and she can't process it. It's not going in. _He hit me, he hit me, he-_

A knock at the door dissipates the memory. Grell raises her head from the book that she hasn't been managing to read, glances at the clock – it's ten past six now; a few hours have passed since she left the office – and then gets up, fussing over her waistcoat for a moment before standing and going to the door. Nobody is expected so she hasn't changed out of her work clothes; hasn't made any effort with her appearance at all. This is catastrophic at worst; unfortunate at best.

It's probably just Ronnie at the door, come to check in on her after the day. He'd had a few opinions on what Will had done and what Grell should do about it, none of which were really any use but all of which made Grell feel better, but she knows that he won't have actually done anything. Her junior cares, but he's casual about it. He'll fight her corner if she's in a corner and leave her to throw her own punches for the rest of the time.

Grell opens the door smiling, finds that it isn't Ronnie at all, and feels her face drop – a mistake that she tries immediately and unsuccessfully to remedy. William's expression is neutral, his stance is open, and his eyes are somewhere on the wall rather than her face. He's also brought a bottle, which is almost certainly a peace offering. After a moment of deeply unpleasant silence – she can't find anything to say; whilst the reason behind the visit is obvious Grell has never in her life accepted an apology – he glances up sharply enough to suggest that he's surprised to see her on her own porch. Somehow introductory small-talk gets lost in the air.

“Ronald said that you went home early with a headache. Did I..?”

“No. You didn't hurt me. It didn't even bruise, see?” _There's_ the side of him that she loves, and the gap now being bridged restores words to her tongue. She inclines her head toward him and he runs his hand through her hair, combing her skull for any sign of injury. “It's sweet of you to check on me like this, though.”

“I came to see if you needed... anything,” William tells her, and she realises that he is offering himself. The gesture makes her smile again, even though it's distasteful.

“An apology is all I want,” she replies, and he nods.

“I'm sorry. It was a thoughtless, stupid action, and I had no justification for it.”

Grell considers him – he's honest, obviously, but an honest man can make an abuser as easily as a monster if he can't repress impulsive violence. But this is the first time he has gone any way toward hurting her since the exam, and he's been stressed; since the accident on the Thames two days ago the paperwork hasn't stopped coming in. Will had had to go out, too, which Grell knows he considers to be outwith his job parameters now that he's in management. The incident is isolated, so he's home and dry as far as she's concerned. “You've had a clean run for seventy years – I suppose I can forgive you this.” 

She steps back, motioning him into her home, and accepts the bottle when he offers it. It's red wine, good quality and French, and fits well between her arm and her side. 

“We are going to slow waltz our way to the kitchen,” Grell declares, taking his arms. “From there onwards we can make things up as we go along.”

William sighs, the exaggerated exasperation in the expulsion betraying his fondness, and his hand finds the small of her back even as he says, “If I remember correctly, the last time we did this we both ended up on the floor.”

“You fell over the footstool,” Grell recalls, grinning. “That was a good day – it was right after you were promoted, wasn't it? You wouldn't let me organise a party.”

“I didn't see that anyone else had a reason to celebrate.” He's smiling a little too, now, the curve on his lips minute but noticeable as he begins to lead. They lull in easy tandem, conquering the house step by step together. It must look dreadfully silly without music, but William seems nothing but content and so is she.

(Dancing is one of their few absolutely mutual pleasures – Grell sees it more often than not as something wonderfully romantic, and Will finds it structured and precise enough that it is an enjoyable routine. Neither are exactly professionals, but both have learned to move gracefully enough that they make an undeniably beautiful pair. It's a nice assurance amongst life's other ambiguities.)

“Would you rather I didn't flirt with you at work?” she asks as they move, and Will slows a little before finding the correct tempo again. It's not something that she has ever thought to ask before.

It takes him a moment of consideration before he offers an answer, but a shake of the head precedes it. “No, I don't mind it. But I would be grateful if you weighed your words more carefully when you're around my superiors.”

“Did I embarrass you?” That's the last thing that she wants, but the potential isn't new. Something of her reputation tars him – and has since they were juniors – but as far as she's aware it has never brought him trouble. Again he shakes his head.

“Believe it or not, innuendo is expected from you. I embarrassed myself far more than you could have.” The thought seems to bother him, and he sweeps her round in an unnecessary circle before they come to an abrupt halt with William's back at the kitchen counter. Grell grins up at him, Will simply eyes her, and she hold him there for a few moments as they both feign catching breath. His hands shift position, creeping up her back, and leaning her head under his feels right. She sets the bottle down gently behind him and returns the embrace.

“You're excused by merit of your work, though,” she murmurs into his neck. “Nobody's had as much on their plates as you after last Tuesday. You're stretched taut with stress.” It hasn't been a fantastic week. A pair of sizeable pleasure boats had collided on the Thames, fatally – the dead count had risen above six hundred, and an accident in Personnel had forced William to come out and help with fieldwork. There are a lot of things about fieldwork which Will finds unappealing (Grell has been keeping a list) and the fact that he is also not keen on boats, working in tandem with others and indeed being mobilised with no prior warning did not help. Thankfully she had also been on the job, and the two demons that had shown up to cash in on the souls had killed each other in a territorial dispute instead of bothering the reapers. It had been over quickly, almost all souls collected on time, and Grell had gone home perfectly happy. The next day William had shown her the monstrous burst of paperwork associated with the sinking.

“That's no excuse for this,” he replies. “You did nothing to deserve being hit.”

“But I pushed you,” she argues, pulling back to meet his eye. “And he saw that. It'll be forgotten within the week – why, I can almost convince myself of its unreality already.”

“Don't pretend that this didn't happen.” It's a request rather than an instruction, but his tone is warning anyway. Bless him, he's worried. “I know that you're resilient, but nonetheless you shouldn't make light of it.”

Grell rolls her eyes, pointedly, but is pleased again that he's proven to care. “For heaven's sake, _darling_ , it was just a slap. I was crude, you were stressed; I'm glad that you took it out on me instead of some other poor lackey. If we didn't have so rich a history or if you hadn't come all this way just to say sorry, _may_ be I'd fret over it. Maybe. But I know you, so it's fine.”

(A few years later she'll remember these words, and – well, not quite _regret_ them, but certainly wonder if it wouldn't have been more prudent to let him believe her devastated by the violence.)

She releases him now without waiting for an answer, pulling down two glasses from the cupboard and swooping upon the wine. William still doesn't look entirely happy, but to her relief he does drop it; accepts the glass handed to him with a nod and touches it to hers in time-honoured tradition before they make the short pilgrimage toward the sofa. He sits crosslegged, one arm draped over the back, languid and at ease. Grell curls herself beside him, serene in the silence, and wonders if one can derive some deep symbolism from wine.

After a while, out of the desire for _some_ conversation, Grell says, “I've got gossip.” The statement is half true – it's obvious and unimportant, but Will won't know about it yet because he doesn't tend to stick his nose anywhere other than deep in paperwork if he can help it. He never has been particularly interested in office relations, but he indulges her anyway.

“Oh?”

“Eric's been catching my eye again,” she informs him, failing not to smile. “But Alan's still catching his.”

“Are they not together yet?” The sheer incredulity in the statement makes Grell laugh, and Will rolls his eyes. “I mean, they must be aware that they both-?”

“They both know, of course; they're just utterly _steeped_ in denial. Alan's pretending that Eric can't possibly want someone so sick and Eric's... well, I think his head hasn't quite caught up with his heart.” The situation is stereotypically romantic, and it's as quaint as it is frustrating to watch the not-yet-couple unwittingly give one another bedroom eyes in the breakroom. Will gives a huff of either amusement or mild annoyance and changes the subject.

“So you aren't still with that...” He pauses a moment, seeking one name from her many, “...Richards?”

“Oh, no. No, he turned out to be surprisingly intolerant.”

(He'd been so kind right up to the point that he hadn't.)

The statement is worded in an attempt to lead William down a blind assumption, but he's not stupid. He sighs and looks at her seriously, as he always does when this topic swings round, and then says, “You know, maybe it would be better for you to not–”

“N _o_ ,” she hisses, cutting him off. It's a preprepared refute. “If they don't like you then they've no business with me.”

“Why not?” he counters, frowning again. “There's no need to make it so explicit that you're fond of me. The vast majority of your relationships come to pieces purely because your partner knows that I'm here for you, even in so incongruous a setting as this, and assume the worst.” If he's trying to placate her he's doing a poor job. Grell feels her ire boil up again, borne on by the circularity of it all.

“I've never so much as made a pass at you whilst I've been with someone else. We've not slept together for years. You're my best friend, Will – I'm not going to toss you aside to please some man who likely as not won't last the week. If they've an issue with me being close to you then it's not _you_ that's offending them; it simply means that they don't trust me to be loyal.” She laughs, perhaps a little too sharply, and William shakes his head.

“Jealousy affects everyone differently.”

“The trick, then, is not to be jealous!” Grell can feel herself getting worked up, and so can he – William places an arm around her shoulder, reassuring. “I've never been anything but loyal to anyone. But they think that because I've been around the block a few times, dated in short spates the majority of them that I'm some – adulteress! That I'll fly the first chance I get to another's bed, relationship or no. It's their own preconceived notions that make them wary of me, not my commitment to you.” He squeezes her shoulder, and she collapses back against him, taking comfort in his presence.

“They're not worth you, then,” William says, which is exactly what she wants to hear. “You will find someone who is – even if it takes you a hundred years, or a thousand. And the rest of them will curse themselves for having been so blinded.”

“At which point you can appear out of nowhere and say 'I told you so' before telling them off for wasting time, I'm sure.” His side is warm, and the hypothetical scenario is just unrealistic enough to make them both smile again.

People believe that they've a whore's relationship – but tonight, as with most nights that they're together, they merely sit close and drink and talk through idle things, casting shadows on the walls and colours on the canvases of one another's minds. Problems and tiffs that should seem monumental alone come apart under someone else's scrutiny; although everything discussed could be worked through alone, they work better as a pair. Alone they are imperfect; together they are somewhat more magnificent.

And there is no bruise upon her skull, nor any reproach within her head.


End file.
